


The Case of the Infant Flatmate

by cableknitbowtiesarecool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cableknitbowtiesarecool/pseuds/cableknitbowtiesarecool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock awakes one morning to find that John has reverted to babyhood. Sherlock must figure out how to take care of him, while working to change him back and keeping the change a secret... for the most part. All is fine and good, until a series of kidnappings begin and babies all over London are turning up missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This stemmed from some fanart I saw a while back where adult Sherlock held a baby John and looked absolutely knackered. It's both cracktastic and serious. Woot! I hope you enjoy it, I certainly am!
> 
> Note: John isn't a baby until the next chapter. Bear with me folks.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBCSherlock's characters, and no copyright is intended. Just fun.

It was nearly two a.m. when Sherlock Holmes came trumping up the stairs to his flat with his companion, John Watson. Both men were exhausted and dripping with freshly fallen rain bestowed upon them by the sadistic Mother Nature. In spite of their mutual states of discomfort, both were grinning. Sherlock had solved the case, and, after much running and the aid of John’s crack shot, they had apprehended the perpetrator who was sure to spend a considerable amount of time behind bars.

In had been a peculiar sort of case. Granted, it had started out standard enough, with several instances of grand theft larceny. All the major jewelry shops in London had reported robberies and missing stock. When Lestrade had first brought it to him, Sherlock had dismissed the case, but the Detective Inspector had gone to John in a desperate attempt to get the doctor to convince his flatmate. As if having the psychopath Moriarty exploit his one weakness weren’t enough.

John had become tentative mates with Greg Lestrade around the time that he had become casual lovers with Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective’s libido after cases had truly astounded John when it had first presented itself the night of Moriarty’s treachery at the pool. After their first time together, it had increased exponentially with each passing day, stifled only during cases. John had come to crave the heat and passion involved in lovemaking with Sherlock, and Sherlock coveted the attention, admiration, and post-coital clarity.

When Lestrade had come to John for help, he had exploited one relationship to benefit the other. To convince Sherlock, John used a powerful weapon: he threatened to withhold intimacy.

The attempt at petty manipulation had, at first, served only to irritate Sherlock. He had responded with petulant brooding and continued refusal to take the case. Then, he had discovered that John’s threat was not an empty one. After several spurned attempts at intercourse, Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed to investigate, despite his belief that it would be an incipient waste of his time.

How wrong he had been. The case had taken him almost a week to solve. He had grown especially frustrated when each lead had brought him to the same unassuming flower shop in Essex. He had searched it once during its operational hours, only to find nothing. Finally, at eleven thirty at night, John at his side, Sherlock decided that he needed a closer look. Rather than wait for the morning, he found himself breaking and entering through a shop window. They hadn’t been alone, as Sherlock had expected, and it had taken a shared cup of tea and a dose of earnest flirting from John to distract the young shop girl long enough for Sherlock to slip into the storage room.

After long minutes of examining and deducing, Sherlock had located the entrance to the underground diamond smuggling headquarters. It could only be accessed through the open mouth of a gargantuan Venus Fly Trap.

Of course, the head of the operation had run. Sherlock had had to pursue first by car, graciously provided by Mycroft Holmes (John had had to bully his flatmate into swallowing his pride enough to use it), then on foot over the crowded London Bridge and down the banks of the Thames. Finally, John had gotten close enough to draw his military issue Browning and shoot the man in the foot, effectively stopping his flight.

The police had arrived shortly after, tipped off by a continuously meddling Mycroft. Lestrade had come across two men--Sherlock and John--restraining a third--the criminal. The detective and his blogger were giggling uncontrollably.

“What’s got you two so bloody tickled,” he had groused. It was twelve-thirty in the morning, and neither had thought to mention that they would be following a lead in Essex.

John had been the one to explain. “The headquarters for the thieves’ operation was under that flower shop in Essex, but the only way to get to it was through a-- what was it, Sherlock?”

“A Venus Fly Trap,” Sherlock had supplied, having completely composed himself. “ _Dionaea muscipula gigantus_. Native to the Congo. The entrance was a chute connected to the Fly Trap’s mouth.”

John had nodded, taking a steadying breath. “And I got to laughing thinking about this bloke, all two meters of him--”

“1.87 meters, John,” Sherlock had corrected.

“Right. All _1.87_ meters of him wriggling into a giant plant’s mouth. All a bit ‘Little Shop of Horrors’, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock blinked in confusion. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, John.”

“You wouldn’t, Mr. Knows-Nothing-About-The-Solar-System,” John had countered affectionately.

Sherlock had decided not to give John the satisfaction of even a huff of indignation. Instead, he had turned to Lestrade. “As you can see, we’ve apprehended the head thief. Their operation, and the stolen jewels can be located under ‘Penelope’s Posies’ on Southridge Street in Essex.”

Lestrade had nodded, before replying with “get yourselves home. You both look like hell. Send your reports tomorrow.”

“Good night, Greg,” John had called over his shoulder before turning to follow his lover, who had swept away without another word.  
Rather than hailing a taxi, the two had opted to walk the two and a half kilometers home, in part to burn off the adrenaline of the case and in part due to a lack of funds. This proved an unfortunate decision, as half a kilometer from Baker Street the sky had opened up and the downpour had begun.

Now the two men stood shivering in the vestibule as John fumbled in his pocket for the key to their flat. When the door was finally open, and sodden coats hung heavy and dripping on their respective hooks, John Watson stretched. “I’m for a shower,” he announced, before turning to Sherlock. “You coming?”

Sherlock gave a scoff of amusement before stepping forward to take the hem of John’s cream jumper in his fingers, which were numb from the rain despite the gloves that he had been wearing.

He allowed John to unbutton his wine-colored silk shirt before lifting both the cable-knit and undershirt over his lover’s head. The garments fell with a wet slap to the floor and were shortly joined by Sherlock’s shirt. “The sharing of body heat in addition to the warmth of the shower would doubtlessly return the feeling to my fingers, and lessen the ache in your shoulder.”

John stiffened. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Don’t be daft, John,” Sherlock returned, his mocking tone amicable and affectionate in its own Sherlockian manner. “I notice everything.”

John nodded. “‘S’one of the reasons you’re so interesting.” He took Sherlock’s hand and lead him towards 221B’s tiny bathroom. He set the temperature of the water and allowed it to begin to fill the space with steam as he turned back to Sherlock. John loved undressing his flatmate, revealing each new area of skin and reveling in its cool pallor. He laid a hot, openmouthed kiss to the damp flesh of Sherlock’s neck as he worked open his belt. Sherlock sighed and leaned into his touch, his forehead coming to rest on John’s.

“Shoes,” John muttered as his hands worked the detective’s soaking trousers and pants to the floor so that he could step out of the whole wet mess. He couldn’t resist jerking the taller man close for a moment to press his freezing chest to Sherlock’s. He caught his flatmate’s mouth with his and grinned at Sherlock’s answering moan before murmuring, “into the shower,” against the full, luscious lips.

Sherlock grudgingly complied on the promise that John would shortly join him. John slipped off his own trousers, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulder as he pushed them down, before sliding into the hot stream behind Sherlock. He wrapped tender arms around his lover’s waist and allowed his cheek to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, offering body heat, before reaching around him to grasp the soap.

Sherlock turned to look at him. In this light, his eyes seemed almost emerald. John caught the gaze as he worked the bar into a lather between his palms. When there were sufficient suds, John placed the bar on the ledge of the shower wall and turned to run his hands down Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. Neither man was up for sex that night, so the tiny sigh that escaped Sherlock’s lips was merely an exhibition of contentment as John drew feeling back into his limbs with friction and his warm mouth. He reveled over the masterpiece that was Sherlock’s body. In the months that he had been under John’s care, Sherlock had put on just enough weight to reach his minimum healthy limit. John was simply pleased that he could no longer use his lover’s ribs as a glockenspiel.

When the water had done its job, and Sherlock had returned John’s favor, washing him with gentle and methodical fingers, the two men fell into John’s bed. Both were clad in jimjam bottoms and, at John’s insistence, warm socks. Now, Sherlock allowed John to pull him close, as he often did after they made love. Sherlock had come to prefer the warm cage of John’s arms to the cool solitude of his own bed, though his pride would never allow him to admit it. John tucked Sherlock’s head under his chin, enjoying the serenity of Sherlock’s breath ghosting over his neck as he inhaled the scent of the detective’s freshly cleaned curls.

It was in this manner that the two drifted off into a warm and contented slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, we see John as a baby! How will Sherlock deal with it?

The following morning, Sherlock awoke to a missing John. This was extremely uncommon for the man who put the ‘early’ in ‘early riser.’ Was it past nine, which would put John en route to the surgery? He rolled over to glance at the clock on John’s night stand. 6:00 A.M.

“John,” Sherlock called softly. Perhaps he had gone to the loo?

There was no reply. Sherlock pushed himself out of the bed to pad down the stairs. It was too early for Mrs. Hudson to be up, so she wouldn’t catch Sherlock shirtless. Not that it would embarrass him in the slightest. Very little did.

The only reason that John could have awoken so early was if he had been roused by a particularly disturbing nightmare. It was an occurrence that had grown increasingly seldom as he had begun to share a bed with Sherlock more often. However, it still happened from time to time. If it had that morning, chances were Sherlock would find John padding around the kitchen making tea.

“John,” Sherlock called again in the empty sitting room. A quick scan of the flat revealed that he was the first to disturb the air since their arrival the night before. If John had been down, he would have cleaned up the puddle that had formed under their damp coats and tidied the clothes that they had discarded on the floor. There were no signs of any kind of struggle, and Sherlock was certain that he would have heard John leave the flat. All his observations told him that John should still be upstairs in the bedroom. Sherlock retrieved his Blackberry from the pocket of his coat and keyed a quick text to his flatmate.

Where are you?  
-SH

He hit send and waited, his mind racing. Where was John? For a fleeting moment, Sherlock heard Moriarty’s threat in his mind.

 _I’ll burn the_ heart _out of you_.

Had the consulting criminal finally decided to make good on the threat? Had he made his move to draw Sherlock out?

His answer came in the form of a soft ping from upstairs. John’s phone.

Sherlock bounded upstairs to their room. He glanced around to see John’s smart phone laying on the nightstand. Another pass over the space revealed that the carpet had not been disturbed since the other night, and John’s drawers had yet to be opened. He should still be curled under the duvet in that blasted bed!

“Dammit, John, where the bloody hell are you?” The shout rang out through the room. What Sherlock hadn’t expected was a response in the form of a wail. The detective whipped his head in the direction of the bed, where the sound had originated. He seized the covers in a clawlike grip and jerked them off of the bed in one fluid motion, before leaping back in shock at what they revealed.

Nestled amid what looked like John’s jimjams was a naked, squalling infant. Sherlock felt the disbelief written in his features, and closed his gaping mouth in irritation. What was going on here? He approached the bed, caution in his stride, before reaching out a tentative finger to prod the baby’s soft belly. In response, the child gurgled and kick his chubby legs happily. Who was this baby? Sherlock sat down gingerly beside it, before leaning in to peer closely at it.

A tuft of soft, sandy hair grew on the baby’s head, and he stared back at Sherlock with a familiar dark blue gaze set in a sweet round face. Sherlock furrowed his brow. It was impossible. There was just no way that this baby could be John Watson. The evidence, however, seemed to speak otherwise. On the boy’s left shoulder was a fleshy pink scar that mirrored John’s. When Sherlock poked the mark gently, the baby winced, just as John would have. On his other arm, Sherlock noted that there was a dark badge inked into the soft pink skin: John’s RAMC tattoo.

Sherlock blanched. If this was the work of Moriarty’s men, then this baby had been made to resemble John as closely as possible, prepared as a taunt for the consulting detective. If it wasn’t Moriarty, the child could be a hallucination. This made no sense, however, as he had gotten adequate amounts of rest, eaten well, and hadn’t touched drugs since before John.

There was only one other explanation, and it was one that Sherlock’s rational mind was having difficulty considering: this baby could _be_ John Watson.

There was only one way to know. One definitive mark that would tell him for sure. Swallowing hard, Sherlock lifted the baby in his hands, minding the head as it flopped forward. Slowly, he rotated the child so that his back was to Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth went dry as he took in the yellowing bruise at the base of the baby’s spine. It was the shape of a bruise that Sherlock’s own lips and teeth had placed on adult John Watson five days ago as they made love. It would be next to impossible to perfect the coloring and nature of the bruise on a baby’s flesh, as it was far too sensitive. Not a decoy then.

The boy was, indeed, John Watson.

How had this happened? How could this be physically possible? Sherlock’s mind screamed out that it wasn’t. It wasn’t humanly possible for an adult male to regress to babyhood overnight, or at all. There had to be a scientific explanation for it. If there was, Sherlock needed to find it, fast, so that he could reverse it . Who knew what kind of damage could be done to the adult John’s mind, if it were even still inside this tiny form.

Carefully, Sherlock caught the baby in the crook of his arm. The grip was awkward, as he had no experience with such things, but it was secure. Quick as he dared, Sherlock hurried down the stairs and into his kitchen slash laboratory. He snatched up a dishcloth folded on the counter, and lay it beneath baby John’s head as he deposited him on the table. Baby John lay, distraught and confused, on the kitchen table as Sherlock approached him with a gleaming syringe. Rather than crying at the pinch of the needle, the baby balled his little fists and babbled in irritation at Sherlock in such a manner that rather reminded the consulting detective of his adult counterpart. He swallowed the lump in his throat before reversing the pump to apply a drop of blood to a slide.

Under his microscope, Sherlock searched frantically for a hint as to what might have caused his flatmate’s newly infantile state. Each increase in magnification added another layer of frustration as it yielded nothing. It was John’s blood; Sherlock had seen it under a microscope several times. As far as he could tell, it was completely normal. No indication that John had changed at all.

Sherlock shoved the instrument away from him, and it fell to the floor with a thundering clatter that made baby John start and begin to whimper. Sherlock looked down at the infant, studying his nakedness and the fright in the tiny features, before calling out, “John.”

The baby turned his head towards the sound, but not in such a manner as normal babies might react to a loud noise. Sherlock noted this, and tried again. “John.”  
The baby trained alert eyes on Sherlock and he was silent, as if waiting for Sherlock to say something more. It was definitely a response to the name, not the sound. So there was some form of cognition there.

Fascinated, Sherlock set about running a series of diagnostic tests on John. He was approximately 8 kilos and, judging on the retinal development, motor skills, and ability to recognize different sounds, Sherlock wagered that he had reverted the developmental equivalent of about five months old.

His mind, however, was much more highly developed than an average five month old. Sherlock had laid out a series of pens, each a different color. John’s eyes had trained on them, and Sherlock had called out a color. Eight times out of ten, John had selected the correct pen. In addition to the ability to differentiate, the baby seemed to offer him a variety of expressions not present in babies under a year and a half. Sherlock typed rapidly on his laptop, researching what was normal and what was not for average children in John’s new age group and learned that amusement, compliance, and mild irritation were not present in a five month old’s range of emotion. Yet, John displayed them to varying degrees after each of Sherlock’s tests.

Finally, baby John seemed to have had enough of Sherlock’s testing, as he rolled away from the detective each time he tried to get him to comply with another task or activity.

“John,” Sherlock snapped in frustration. “I cannot reverse this without data. You must let me run the rest of these tests. Stop that incessant squirming this instant!”

In response to his outburst, John proceeded to kick his legs and laugh in Sherlock’s face, his toothless grin almost mocking in the midst of Sherlock’s anger. He squealed a few times before finally placing his fist into his mouth and watching with suspicion as Sherlock paced around the island. When the detective seized John from the back and lifted him from the table, John flailed angrily and dribbled in protest onto Sherlock’s arm.

Then came the squalling. John was having no more tests, and, moreover, he was cold. This led to a colossal wail and several deafening screeches. Sherlock quickly deposited John back onto the table, but the cries did not cease. The air was too cold, he wanted to be held, and there was a pressing desire to urinate becoming ever present in his lower abdomen.

At least he could alleviate one of his ailments, and he did so quite gleefully. A pale yellow stream shot from the baby in an arch to land directly on the table. John met Sherlock’s eyes, as if challenging him. Sherlock merely stepped back, his lips curled into a sneer of distaste. “Charming, John.”

When he had finished, it was back to the most pressing need: cold. He needed a nappy and some clothes. Soon would be preferable.  
“What,” Sherlock snapped. “What is it? Why are you crying, John? Aside from the fact that you just urinated on the table, what do you have to be upset about?” He couldn’t think. It was too loud. Sherlock had learned a long time ago that you couldn’t just tell a baby to shut up. It didn’t work like that. You had to coddle them, and make sure they were comfortable. He stooped to look at John, who had great tears falling from his eyes as he screeched in disapproval at the conditions.

Something about knowing that it was John, and knowing that he was upset, bothered Sherlock. He had to stop this crying, for John’s sake and the sake of his own sanity. There was a reason Holmes men didn’t like children. In fact, it was difficult to imagine himself or Mycroft having ever been one.

Swiftly, Sherlock lifted John, who thankfully hadn’t gotten any urine on himself during his episode, and tried to deduce the best course of action. He used the dishcloth to mop up the mess as he frantically tried to reach a solution. He hadn’t the slightest idea about what do with a baby. He’d never exactly babysat, and he was the youngest in his family. When should he have encountered them?

Sherlock heard the ping of his phone in the sitting room and gave a sigh of exasperation, before tucking John back into the crook of his arm and going to retrieve it.

Sorry to get you so early, but I think  
you’ll want to see this. 620 Farley St. Brixton  
Lestrade

 _I think you’ll want to see this_. Lestrade’s way of asking for his help. Sherlock sighed. Were the police incapable of coping without him for even a single day? Resigned, the detective punched in a quick response.

Thirty minutes.  
SH

Brixton would be twenty minute cab ride. Fifteen if he could bribe the cabbie to speed. That left him fifteen to decide what he was going to do with John. The baby had stopped crying for a few moments, but, as if he sensed that he had Sherlock’s attention back, he renewed his squalls pointedly. He was still cold, after all.

Sherlock gave a groan of frustration. Who knew about babies? Who could help him with John?

 _Mrs. Hudson_. Mrs. Hudson was a woman, and a grandmother from what Sherlock understood. No doubt she held some kind of maternal instinct that would help to placate John. He glanced at the clock on his phone. 8:30. At least she’d be awake.

Still crying John in tow, Sherlock shot into his bedroom. It didn’t occur to him that, despite their months of lovemaking, this was the first time John had been in Sherlock’s room. It had always been the couch, John’s room, the shower, or the kitchen table. Never Sherlock’s room. Now, the baby version of John couldn’t appreciate the dark blue duvet, the crimson sheets. He couldn’t even point out how surprisingly tidy the space was. All he did was continue to kick his legs and wail.

“If you repeat your performance in the kitchen on my bed, you _will_ regret it,” Sherlock threatened as he dressed. John ignored him, hiccoughing between cries.

Within three minutes, Sherlock was dressed and John was pressed to his shoulder as he pounded on his landlady’s door. “Mrs. Hudson!”

“I’m coming, Sherlock,” the woman’s voice snapped gently as he continued to knock. The door opened shortly after. It was evident that she had just finished dressing, as her green dress was slightly askew and her hair seemed to want a bit more attention. “What is it, dear?”

“I’ve a bit of a problem,” Sherlock said simply, before sweeping, uninvited, into Mrs. Hudson’s homey flat.

“Is that a baby, Sherlock,” the woman asked in alarm.

“No, its a loaf of fresh bread,” Sherlock snapped in annoyance.

“Don’t take that tone with me, sir,” she groused. “Where’s his nappy?”

“His what,” Sherlock questioned.

“His _nappy_ , Sherlock,” she repeated. At Sherlock’s clueless expression, Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “Give him here.”

Sherlock surrendered John warily. He doubted that Mrs. Hudson would be able to figure it out, but he didn’t like taking the chance. He knew that it would be unbelievable to explain, and he really didn’t have the time.

“He looks about the same age as Kipper’s son,” she called from the back room where she had disappeared with John. “That’s my daughter’s son. I should have some of his nappies and clothes here.”

Sherlock followed after her, fascinated. She set John gently on the table after laying out a knitted blanket. “He’s just a little bit chilly,” she cooed to him, taking his little feet in her hands and lifting his pelvis to slide what looked to Sherlock like a padded napkin with tassels on either side. In moments, Mrs. Hudson had manipulated the napkin to cover John’s nakedness. He stopped crying, and Sherlock felt as the though the world had just gone silent. He could have kissed Mrs. Hudson as he watched her draw out a black and white striped onesie and wrestle John’s kicking legs into it with patient hands.

“Never much liked this one. Looks like prison clothes to me. Suits him, though.” She snapped the buttons over John’s chubby belly before lifting him. “That’s better isn’t it, lovey? Yes. There’s a happy boy.”

John grinned at Mrs. Hudson, splaying his hands on her face as she continued to chortle at him. Sherlock’s lip twitched, and he turned away to look at his phone. He had ten minutes before he had to hail the cab.

“Now, I don’t involve myself other people’s business, Sherlock, but where did you get this baby? Whose is he?” Mrs. Hudson held John, calm accusation in her eyes.

Sherlock’s mind raced. Of course it would look suspicious that he, Sherlock Holmes, would have a baby with him. He cursed his lack of planning, but John had thrown him off his game. Very well, a story on the fly. “He’s… John’s nephew.”

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. “John told me that his sister was… not so inclined.”

Sherlock cursed inwardly. Of course John would have spoken with her more than he did. Just because he disclosed so little didn’t mean his flatmate did. “Not Harry. John’s… brother.”

Mrs. Hudson shifted John to her hip. “He never mentioned a brother.”

“They aren’t close. John doesn’t talk about him much. I sense that there’s a bit of bad blood there.”

“What’s his name?”

“Peter. Pete Watson. His wife’s lost an uncle, and John said he’d take the baby for a bit. Apparently, there was no one else.”

Mrs. Hudson looked contemplative. “Did he talk to you about it? No offense, dear, but you seem off guard to say the least.”

Sherlock put on a victimized air. “I wasn’t aware, no. If I had been, I might have told him that it wasn’t a good idea. John’s fellow veterans thought that it would be best to kidnap their captain for a surprise holiday in Spain. The baby was dropped off an hour before he left.” The lies tumbled easily from his mouth now that he had begun to gain momentum. “I tried to get in touch with Mike Stamford, who was organizing the affair, but it was too late. John ran out to grab something for the baby at Tesco’s and his friends nabbed him. He hasn’t gotten a chance to call, yet.” He stole another glance at his phone. Seven minutes.  
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson intoned. “And what’s the baby’s name?”

“John,” Sherlock replied. It was better to be truthful about that, as he would no doubt be caught talking to him. At Mrs. Hudson’s look of confusion, he added, “It’s a family name. John and his father share it, and Pete’s wife wanted her son to have it.” Six minutes.

She seemed to accept this. “Right. So you’ve got him for how long?”

“Indefinitely,” Sherlock replied. “Until John comes home. The vacation’s only supposed to be a week, but, from what John has told me, he and his friends have been known to take longer than scheduled, both during his service and on leave. It apparently got him into trouble more than once.”

“Well then, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Sherlock.” She turned to John, “You’re not going to be easy, are you? I can tell.”

Sherlock had an idea. “Mrs. Hudson,” he started, honeying his tone to its most persuasive.

She looked up. “Yes, dear?”

“There’s a case on, and I haven’t really got the time to solve it and contend with an infant. You seem much more capable than I could ever begin to be.”

“You want me to watch him,” she stated.

Sherlock fixed her with what he hoped would be an amiable smile. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Oh it wouldn’t, dear,” she replied. “But as I’m neither your housekeeper, nor your babysitter, you’ll just have to manage.” She handed the baby back to Sherlock, who was stunned. Mrs. Hudson had never refused him before.

“But I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with him,” he protested. “I don’t have time to change nappies and feed him bottles.”

“Trust me, dear. People with much less going on in their heads have succeeded in raising children. You’ll do fine. If you have questions, I’ll answer them, but you can’t just dump little John onto me. Take some responsibility, love.”

Sherlock glanced at his phone. Four minutes. “Mrs. Hudson, I need my hands free to observe. I can’t be carrying a baby and chasing after criminals.”

Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. “Wait here, Sherlock,” she said before disappearing again. Sherlock stared down at John, who was perfectly contented now that he was comfortable and clothed. He snuggled into Sherlock’s chest and stared up at him with big blue eyes that seemed to have a permanent twinkle of amusement in them. “You would think this is funny, John. I assure that it isn’t. Whatever you’ve done to get yourself stuck like this is decidedly not amusing. It’s interfering with my work.”

John giggled, a tiny sound that sent a shot of… something through Sherlock as he watched John reach up to wrap one of his dark curls around a tiny finger. A sound from the doorway led him to snap his head up. Mrs. Hudson had a hand over heart. “Isn’t that just precious? He likes you.”

 _I should hope he likes me, considering he’s been_ \-- Sherlock wouldn’t allow himself to finish that thought. Not appropriate in light of John’s newfound infancy. Instead, he looked back at Mrs. Hudson. She held a large, floppy object that resembled a rucksack with holes cut out of the bottom and no top. “What is that?”

“Kipper gave it to me for Mikey last Christmas. Of course, I can’t use it with my hips as bad as they are. I think you might find it useful. Put John down.” She advanced on him after he had set John onto a plush armchair to his left. “Take off your coat a moment.”

“Why,” he questioned as she pulled it off of him. He needed to go. The last thing he had time for was getting comfortable. He only had two minutes before he needed to be in a cab to Brixton.

Mrs. Hudson ignored the question and slid the straps of the thing she held over Sherlock’s arms before wrapping the bottom around his waist. Sherlock stood stock still, intrigued as she did up various buckles on his back before coming back around to open the pouch on the front. It flopped to hit him in the upper thighs. She lifted John, who was staring in interest at the spectacle, and pushed his back to Sherlock’s front. “Hold him,” she instructed, and he did so mechanically as she folded the pouch up. It buckled over John’s shoulders, and his little legs hung down to rest on the outside of Sherlock’s thighs while his hands flapped freely in the gaps of the pouch. With a few tugs to the straps on the sides, John fit snugly against Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Very fine,” she decided finally, before helping Sherlock back into his coat, which would have to stay open to accommodate the newly placed John.

The detective caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror in Mrs. Hudson’s hall, and had to suppress a groan. John pointed at the reflection and clapped his hands in glee. Sherlock looked ridiculous, but it was the most practical idea that had come up, and he needed to go. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson,” he called behind him as he dashed out to the street.

“And don’t forget--” Mrs. Hudson stopped short when she returned to an empty flat. Sherlock had gone. She sighed, shaking her head, before heading to the kitchen for a strong cup of tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's got a case, and a baby John. Sherlock does some sexy deducting.

The cab pulled up outside of the address that Lestrade had texted him with three minutes to spare, and Sherlock took a deep breath before paying the cabbie the extra dividend he had promised. Fortunately, John had been demure as he rode with Sherlock, and seemed willing to maintain the good behavior on the case. Now, Sherlock just needed to steel himself for the inevitable jibes from the police.

He approached with as much confidence as he could muster. He was aware that he was probably quite a sight to behold, but he had to own it, and he had to do so with grace if he wished to be taken seriously.

Sergeant Sally Donovan stood with her back to approaching detective, chattering into her walkie talkie. When she cut off, she caught a glimpse of Sherlock and wrote him off at first, before doing a double take. “Is that a baby,” she demanded of Sherlock, who did his best to appear aloof and uninterested.

“Very good eye, Sergeant Donovan,” he sighed, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Are you going to let me through? Lestrade did invite me.”

“Why have you got a baby,” she shrilled.

“Why shouldn’t I have one,” Sherlock countered, lifting the caution tape. “I don’t see how it’s any of your concern.”

She narrowed her eyes, before all but shouting into her walkie talkie. “Detective Inspector, the freak’s here. But we’ve got a problem.”

There was static, before Lestrade replied, “What’s he done now?”

“You might just want to come down and see for yourself.”

Sherlock made to enter the house, ignoring the gawking stares of the officers around him, when Lestrade came barreling out the front door, Anderson in tow. “This had better be good, Donovan,” Lestrade snapped.

“Oh it is, sir,” she replied.

Lestrade stalked over to where Sherlock stood. As he approached, his eyes bugged out. Before he could speak, however, Anderson declared, “He’s got a bloody kid with him.”

“My, your powers of deduction have vastly improved, Anderson,” Sherlock sneered. “Good to see that London’s finest have such competence among their ranks.”

“Whose kid is that, Sherlock,” Lestrade demanded, ignoring Anderson’s scoff of indignance.

“He’s John’s nephew,” Sherlock replied, feeding Lestrade the same lie that he had Mrs. Hudson. “And before you go on to say ‘but John’s sister’s a wifey queer’ please understand that I mean that this baby, also called John, is the son of adult John’s brother.”

“John hasn’t got a brother,” Lestrade snapped in a parody of Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock related what he said to his landlady to Lestrade. Anderson was speaking frantically to Donovan, taking in with half trained ears what Sherlock had said. Finally, when the Detective Inspector seemed to accept what the consulting detective had said, he countered with, “And you saw fit to bring an infant to a crime scene? A murder scene, no less.”

“You asked me to come,” Sherlock protested.

“You didn’t tell me that you had a bloody kid with you,” Lestrade countered.

“Why should it matter? John doesn’t hinder my ability to observe.”

Lestrade sputtered. “Why should it matter,” he echoed, incredulity in his tone. “Sherlock, it’s not appropriate to bring a baby to a murder scene! In what universe did you think it would be?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. It wasn’t appropriate to bring a civilian to a murder scene three months ago, but you seemed to have no trouble with John. Why is this John any different?” It was, after all, the very same John.

“Babies get in the way, Sherlock. They cry, get excited, and all sorts of rubbish. Also, bringing a-- how old is he?”

“Five months,” Sherlock supplied. There was a look on his face that told Lestrade that he was being humored. Nothing that he was saying was of any interest to the detective. Even with this knowledge, he continued.

“Five months. And it didn’t occur to you that bringing a child that young to a murder scene might traumatize them?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please, Lestrade, I’d ask that you use what little brain development that you might have. Memory is not ingrained in the subconscious for longer than a week at this age. By next Tuesday, he won’t remember a thing about this.” Of course, Sherlock had no idea whether the crime scene would stick in John’s mind. He was, obviously, not a typical infant. He may remember with semi perfect clarity, or at least the sixty percent of details recalled by the average adult mind. However, they were still operating under Lestrade’s impression that this was an ordinary child.

“First off, Holmes, don’t imply that I’m unintelligent on my own crime scene. Second, I don’t know if I feel comfortable with the baby being here.” Lestrade loved children. He’d always wanted them, even when his wife hadn’t. Naturally, they held a soft spot in his heart, and he didn’t want the kid damaged.

Sherlock was getting exasperated. Anderson and Donovan were waiting expectantly for Lestrade to send him on his way, and Sherlock was not having it. “Might I remind you that _you_ texted _me_ , Lestrade? As for discomfort-- I am uncomfortable with you letting your apes tramp over the crime scene, mucking more up with each moment we spend arguing about it. John will be fine, I assure you. Now, will you please let me see the body?”

Lestrade was cracking, Sherlock could see it. He’d get his way. He nearly always did. In a last feeble attempt, he asked, “Where’s John? _Your_ John, I mean.”

Sherlock missed a beat. _His_ John. Was that how everybody thought of John Watson? It wasn’t that it bothered Sherlock. Quite the opposite, actually. He _liked_ that John was considered to be an extension of him. _His_ John. Like _his_ arm or _his_ leg.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade snapped, pulling the detective from his thoughts.

“Barcelona, I believe,” Sherlock replied, as if nothing were amiss.

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Barcelona,” he exclaimed. “Why in the hell is he in _Spain_?”

“Holiday,” Sherlock responded, bored. “Are you going to let me have a look at the body?”

Just as he asked, baby John gave a squeal and clapped his little hands together. Sherlock looked down at his chest, puzzled. John paid no mind to the attention on him, continuing to babble in excitement.

Lestrade grinned. It was no use trying to persuade Sherlock to leave, he wouldn’t listen. Instead, Lestrade reached out and put a hand to John’s downy locks. “Seems you’ve a partner as barking as you are, Sherlock,” he said with affection. “Seems a bit more excited than’s appropriate. Like someone else I know.”

Sherlock took a step back from Lestrade, putting space between his chest and the detective inspector’s hand. He didn’t like physical contact--John excluded. “Yes, he does seem enthusiastic,” he agreed. “All the more reason to cease being difficult and let me do my job.”

Lestrade rubbed his face. He’d grown weary of the argument, and there was still work to be done. “All right,” he acceded. “Five minutes.”

“Five,” Sherlock echoed, an excited sparkle in his eyes. “Feeling generous today, are we?”

“Don’t push it, Holmes,” the other man snapped. By the time he had said it, Sherlock was through the front door, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. “Second door on the right.” He needn’t have said more. Sherlock was through the door, shoving aside a protesting Anderson.

Splayed on her back, hands bound above her head, was a woman. Her blond hair spread beneath her like a pale stain on the wood of the floorboards. Sherlock came to kneel beside the dead woman. “Hello,” he whispered.

Baby John was as solemn as the others in the room, his round face losing all trace of excitement. His legs bent, and his bottom came to rest on Sherlock’s knee as he knelt, as if John were sitting in his flatmate’s lap. His feet hung mere inches from the corpse before them, and his blue eyes focused with more alertness than a typical infant tended to exhibit. True to Sherlock’s word, he did not fidget or cry.

Sherlock went about the body, lifting and prodding specific parts as if it were some sort of science project. Lestrade watched fascinated. He was always transfixed when Sherlock deduced, his face a mask of concentration. In fact, the Detective Inspector was probably one of the only ones on scene that wasn’t disgusted by the callous, methodical manner with which Sherlock examined the woman.

“Fiona MacFarlane,” the silver haired man offered to Sherlock, who only half heard him as he leaned in close to examine her fingernails. “Thirty-two years old.”

“She’s a bank teller,” Sherlock threw out, prodding the pads of her index and middle fingers, the centers of which demonstrated a flatness that could only be associated with the constant punching of keys on a calculator. “Barclays.” He passed a thumb over a partial ink stain from a stamper on the meat of her palm. He lifted a portion of the long tresses to his nose and inhaled. “Bank’s across from a Thai restaurant. She ate there today.”

No wedding ring. He quickly slid his eyes over her neck in search of love bites, wrists for lacerations caused by rough foreplay, and torso for an upkeep in personal style. There was nothing to that effect on those areas. No lover. “She was single. No boyfriend or dates in at least three months.”

There was something else. Lestrade watched as Sherlock ran his hand down her body with an air that would disprove any claim that he was merely “copping a feel,” he had on his focused face: brow wrinkled, eyes wide and darting, and lips slightly parted. It had been so long since he had worked without John, but he felt that he could confidently say that she had died of strangulation. Not rope. Fabric. Soft.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shot into a standing position. Baby John gave a start of surprise at the unexpected movement, but Sherlock was too preoccupied to pay it any mind. “Where’s the twins’ room,” he demanded.

Lestrade blinked. “Twins?”

“Yes, her children, Lestrade. Twins. Most likely between one and four months. Identical.”

“She hasn’t got kids, Freak,” Donovan cut in from the corner of the room, where she had chosen to stand while Sherlock worked.

“Yes, she has. Look at her. Even an idiot could tell,” Sherlock snapped. “Didn’t you examine the rest of the house?”

“Of course we did, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, intervening before Donovan could retort. “There was no sign that she had children. Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure! Why else would an eligible thirty-two-year-old woman have no dating prospects? There are no signs of dementia or other mental disturbances on her body. She keeps her fingernails short, because she doesn’t have time to maintain long nails. The nails are brittle and would break off in their diapers, or when she opened the cap to the formula. Her stomach is rounded in a way that does not suggest a fondness for bloody eclairs. She had children recently, but not recently enough that she would still have an excess of swelling in the abdomen.” Sherlock took a breath before barreling on. “Her hair hasn’t been washed for thirty-six hours, suggesting a lack of time. The bags under her eyes are not only fatigue, but also stress. Most importantly, her breasts are swollen, but she is no longer lactating, hence the lack of a stain on her clothing. She isn’t breast feeding, but she did have the opportunity at one point. The human body does not produce enough milk cells for a multiples birth.”

“How do you know that,” Anderson demanded, incredulity in his voice.

“I live with a doctor. Unlike some people, he happens to possess a complex understanding of the human body.”

Anderson opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade cut him off as well. They didn’t have all day, and a crowd was beginning to gather outside. “How are you so certain that its twins?”

“Her feet,” Sherlock replied simply, impatience spilling over. If it had been any other time, Lestrade might have laughed at how ridiculous the detective looked with his fingers in his hair, a manic gleam in his blue eyes, and bewildered infant strapped to his chest under his coat. During his rant, Sherlock’s scarf had come untucked from his suit jacket. John seemed fascinated with the fabric, which was downy and soft under his sensitive fingers. Experimentally, he pulled the bottom of the scarf into his mouth, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Her feet,” Anderson chimed in again. “Are you insane? How could you possibly tell how many children this woman might have by her bloody feet.”

“Lestrade, send your lapdog elsewhere. He’s irritating me.”

“Sir,” Anderson whined.

“Go wait outside, Mike,” Lestrade ordered.

“But--”

“Please.”

Grumbling, Anderson turned on his heel and stalked from the room. Donovan followed him, eyes shooting daggers at Sherlock. Lestrade watched them go before turning back to the mess of a man in front of him. “He asked a good question, Sherlock. How can you tell?”

“Her feet are missing patches of skin on the tops and backs, which means that she has to constantly kick her shoes off without untying them. Her hands are always busy, making her unable to bend down to remove them. There are no sign of callouses from a purse or bag on her palms, but there is a smoothness on the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger created from constantly pushing a stroller too heavy for her. She looks to be only about 1.6 meters. A small woman to have just borne twins. She was overwhelmed, struggling to handle it all on her own, which goes back to the stress pouches under her eyes.” He looked expectantly at Lestrade, his eyes joined by a set of dark blue orbs that the detective inspector thought must run in John’s family.

There was a short silence which would normally be filled by an admiring exclamation from John on the brilliance of Sherlock’s deductive ability. Sherlock rather missed it, having grown accustomed to praise each time he observed. Thoughtlessly, his fingers danced over John’s hair in a manner similar to Lestrade’s earlier pats.

After a moment, the Detective Inspector nodded. “All right, I believe you,” he admitted. “Of course I do. You’re rarely wrong.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “I’m _never_ wrong.” Lestrade fixed him with a patronizing look. John decided that that moment was the best time to blow large bubbles of drool and clap his hands, diffusing the potential situation. Lestrade gave a small grin.

Sherlock was still in work mode, and ignored John’s antics. “I need three more minutes,” he said to Lestrade.

“What? Why,” Lestrade demanded.

“To find the twins’ room. You realize that, if it’s unaccounted for, then we are dealing with a missing persons case on top of a homicide?”

Lestrade flushed. He didn’t want a kidnapping. He hated kidnappings. “Fine. Three minutes.”

“Good.” Sherlock was off, his long coat billowing out behind him. He crashed up the stairs, popping in and out of rooms in mere moments. Finally, he came to the final room at the end of the hall. Upon opening the door, stepping inside, and running his hands down the wall, he declared, “This is it. The twins’ room.”

The room was a dark, hunter green, and filled with exercise equipment, a broken telly, and an aquarium. To an untrained eye, it never could have housed children of any age. Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. “What, fooled by a new paint job and randomly placed furniture? Look here,” he all but shouted when confronted by silence. He dropped to his knee, again startling John. “Four indents, evenly spaced. Shaped like the pegs on the legs of a typical baby’s crib. There are four identical indents over here. Two cribs, two babies. These things were moved into the room to distract the police from the fact that she had children. And the paint...” he trailed off, his head moving in every which way as he searched for some foreign object. There was no way anyone could follow his train of thought, so they all watched in fascination, crowded in the doorway.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes fell upon one of Lestrade’s senior officers. He had noticed the man around crime scenes, but Sherlock had never needed to speak to him. Now he advanced quickly, looking quite a sight with little John strapped to his chest. “You. Give me your flask.”

“M-my flask,” the officer, who was called Garrity, stammered.

“I spoke perfect English,” Sherlock snapped. “Your flask of whiskey!”

The officer sent an apologetic look to Lestrade before withdrawing a flat, silver decanter of alcohol and holding it out. Sherlock snatched it without a word, and turned back to the wall. “There’s a chip in the paint just here,” he said from behind the weight lifting bench. “Very clever. Did she dent it with the barbell? Perhaps to the untrained eye. The angle and depth is all wrong. This room’s been painted, then aired out and mucked up to make it look lived in. The whiskey will stick to the wallpaper beneath it, and I should be able to peel a strip of paint right off.” He doused the small white oval of plaster revealed beneath the green paint, waited a moment, then withdrew a small scalpel-like object from his coat pocket. Lestrade shuddered at the idea of a sharp implement so close to the baby, but it moved away too quickly for him to say anything. Instead, he resigned himself to worrying about what else Sherlock kept in his pockets.  
Sherlock used the edge of the scalpel to peel back a flap of the paint, which came up easily, just as he’d said it would. He seized the flap between two delicate fingers and peeled it back with a flick of his wrist. A long strip of the paint came away and, after a second application of whiskey, a large rectangular section. Sherlock stepped back, triumph in his posture. “What would you say that that is, Lestrade?”

Greg Lestrade stepped forward to peer at the exposed light yellow patch. There was a faint outline of what appeared to be two cartoon giraffes playing tag. “That would be children’s wallpaper,” he said simply. His face creased as he frowned. “We have a potential kidnapping on our hands. Twin babies.”

“Send the woman to Molly Hooper. She’ll confirm that it was twins delivered 1-4 months ago,” Sherlock told Lestrade, his eyes blazing with his success. 

“All right. I think you’ve given me all I need,” Lestrade said gruffly. “Get out of here. Get that baby some food.”

As if on cue, John gave a whimper. It was nearly ten o’clock, and he hadn’t yet eaten. Sherlock glanced down at the baby on his chest. John met his ice blue eyes with a watery dark blue gaze. _No matter_ , Sherlock thought. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would have something for him to eat. What was it that five month old babies ate? He’d google it.


	4. Chapter 4

Bidding farewell to Lestrade and trading a few more verbal blows with Sergeant Donovan, Sherlock began making his way towards the main road in search of a cab to bring him back to Baker Street. He was almost there, when a familiar voice called out to him in a patronizing tone. Sherlock gave a groan of frustration and turned. He was confronted with the sight of a long black Rolls Royce. _Mycroft_.

“Sherlock,” his brother’s posh timbre rang out. “Have you got something to tell me?”

Sherlock remained stoic. “Whatever do you mean, Mycroft,” he replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him to be walking away from a crime scene with an infant strapped to his chest--an infant who was growing significantly more agitated with each passing moment. 

“Get in the car, Sherlock,” Mycroft commanded.

“Said the spider to the fly,” Sherlock snapped. He looked falsely contemplative for a moment. “Though, I suppose that you’re much, _much_ too large to be a convincing spider. Been getting into the cake lately, brother?”

Mycroft fixed him with one of his tolerating smiles. It was an expression that always made Sherlock feel as though he were a six year old child waiting for a chiding. In short, it made his blood simmer with irritation. Still, he said nothing. There was a silence broken by more whines from John, who was threatening a full scale tantrum if someone didn’t feed him soon.

“I could force you,” Mycroft said, his tone altogether pleasant. “But it seems that your little friend will make the decision for you. Ride with me, and reach Baker Street much faster than if you took a cab.”

Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh before crossing to the other side of the vehicle, wrenching open the door, and throwing himself a bit too roughly onto the seat for John’s liking. He began to cry in earnest, his legs splaying straight out as he did so. Sherlock forgot his sulking for a moment, his mind muddled with the uneasy feeling that came from John being so upset. His fingers flew to the buckles on the pouch of the carrier. He undid them, fumbling only a little, and let it fall open. Gently, he lifted John, readjusted him so that they were face to face, and met his big blue eyes with his own silver gaze. He wasn’t sure how to comfort a baby--he wasn’t even sure how to _hold_ one--but he hoped that John would calm down on his own soon. Lestrade had been right. Naturally John would be hungry. He was only a baby now, and babies ate more often than adults.

Mycroft watched the display with no emotion reading on his face. Finally, he interjected, “Where did that child come from, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s attention snapped away from John, who still cried, though more softly now that he was no longer in such an uncomfortable position. “Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock returned.

“Charming as usual, brother,” Mycroft retorted, before changing tactics. He held out his hands. “May I?” The gesture did not stem from the elder Holmes’s sudden preference for babies. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on John.

“No,” he replied, his jaw set in defiance.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, “Come now, brother. You and I both know that it is my duty to ensure that I know of and am acquainted with all outside stimuli that might affect you.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Sherlock groused. “And you still can’t hold him.” He had to speak louder, as John’s whimpers had once again escalated.

“Why ever not,” Mycroft demanded, sitting back with a simper painted over his lips.

 _Because he’s mine_. “I don’t want you corrupting him. Even this vicinity to you is threatening.”

Mycroft scoffed. “You make me sound like a deadly disease, or a comic book villain.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Now stop being childish,” Mycroft said, voice conversational. He held out his hands again.

It was with much irritation and stiffness that Sherlock passed John off to his brother. John quieted for a moment, bewildered by the change in hands. Mycroft moved to settle him into his lap, when his forefinger pressed into John’s left shoulder. Hard. The baby erupted in new cries, altogether different from the sobs of discomfort earlier. These were cries of agony.

“Look what you’ve done,” Sherlock snarled. “Give him back to me!”

Mycroft shrugged and handed the screaming John back over to Sherlock. His little face was screwed up in pain, and Sherlock held him protectively to his chest. He wasn’t sure where the awkwardness of this morning had gone, but he didn’t question it. John continued to cry, and Sherlock thought hard. When he had fallen as a child, what had his mother done to calm him? She had held him, as Sherlock now held John. What else? He cursed as he tried to remember. Aha! Slowly, the detective began to sway his body forward in his seat, then back to his original position.

It seemed to do the trick. John was hiccoughing again, his sniffles muffled in the wool merino coat. Sherlock fixed his brother with a glare that would have stopped most people in their tracks. It, of course, had no affect on Mycroft, who adjusted his position to rest his right ankle on his left knee. “Poor child,” he stated, no remorse in his tone. “Now tell me, Sherlock, how was it that you managed to turn John Watson into an infant?”

Sherlock’s heart stopped. He knew. The detective inwardly sputtered as he struggled to keep his voice composed. He was pleased when it came out steady and tight with irritation. “How did you know,” he demanded.

“I suspected,” Mycroft corrected. “Your intransigent refusal to relinquish him merely offered more viability to my theory. You’re always so possessive when it comes to the doctor. The shoulder, a pain that would be magnified in an infant, simply confirmed it.”

He had known it would hurt John, and had done it anyway. Rage flushed Sherlock’s face that he had to swallow back down with a decisive tightening of his jaw muscle. Mycroft watched him, seeming to see right through him. Another reason Sherlock despised his sibling. “What are you waiting for,” he snapped. “You no longer require verbal confirmation.” Not that he would have given it if Mycroft had asked. How he would have covered John’s presence was uncertain, as he always found that he couldn’t lie to his brother, but he would have figured it out.

Instead, he continued to hold John, who still sniffled, to his chest and waited for Mycroft to go on. “How did it happen,” he prompted.

As much he hated to say it, he admitted, “I don’t know, yet.”

Mycroft nodded. “When?”

“This morning.” They were getting close to Baker Street, Sherlock noted, grateful that he’d be out of Mycroft’s stifling presence soon--though not soon enough.

“What had you done the night before?”

As if he didn’t know. He’d done nothing but meddle in the diamond thief case. Sherlock said as much, his tone clipped and irritable. Mycroft merely chuckled. Infuriating.

The car pulled up to the curb in front of 221B. Sherlock was up and out the door almost instantly. He needed to be rid of his brother before he went mad. Mycroft called out to Sherlock’s retreating back. “Well, brother, I suggest that you fix it. And soon, lest people begin to notice the good doctor’s absence. I, of course, am only a call away if you require any help.”

He stopped, hand on the knocker, and turned to face the car again. “I’d sooner ask Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, relishing the wince that came to Mycroft’s face. His brother hated any mention of the consulting criminal. It had been one of the only times that his precious surveillance had failed, and he couldn’t bear that Moriarty had escaped.

“Be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned as the car began to pull away. Sherlock watched as the window rolled up, obscuring his brother from view of the passersby. _Finally_ , Sherlock thought, huffing a breath of air, as if to clear his lungs of Mycroft. John, who was balanced in the crook of his elbow, was back to being hungry. He began pawing at the detective’s sleeve, attempting to convey his infantile frustrations. Sherlock glanced down at him, amused by the irritation in his little face. His hands began to ball into fists as he sucked in air to fuel a new wail. Sherlock took this as his cue to knock hard on the door to his apartment. He had forgotten his key--he usually did-- and John obviously did not have his.

Moments later, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to a flustered Sherlock and a squalling John. “Hello, dear,” she greeted warmly. “Hope you didn’t have too much trouble with him.” She had regretted not helping out a little more, but how else was Sherlock going to learn? He was a full grown man, and he had responsibilities. Still. “Here,” she said, holding out her arms. “Let me take him.”

“He hasn’t eaten yet today,” Sherlock said in a rush, holding onto John and shoving past Mrs. Hudson, who gasped.

“Sherlock, you _must_ remember to feed him. I know food isn’t a huge concern of yours, but little John needs it at least five times a day. Is he onto solids yet?”

Sherlock looked at her. “I don’t know.” How should he know? It wasn’t as though John were a typical infant. Who could say if he ate formula, or craved chicken curry?

Mrs. Hudson gaped at him. “John’s brother didn’t say,” she asked, incredulity in her tone.

“No,” Sherlock snapped. His mind was on the case, and he hadn’t the patience for this. “Start with liquid. If he’s still irritable, then move onto solids.”

She blinked at him. “What makes you think that I’ll be feeding him, dear.”

Sherlock snapped out of his own careening thoughts. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ve a case on. I haven’t time to feed him.”

She smiled and shook her head. “This is for your own good. Until John returns from Spain, this is your responsibility, dear. I’ve got bridge.”

John hadn’t stopped squirming in Sherlock’s grip. He was increasingly agitated as each minute passed without food. Sherlock followed Mrs. Hudson out onto the street. “What does he even need,” he asked, wretched. This was really most inconvenient.

“You’ll need to take a trip down to Tesco’s, Sherlock,” the older woman replied, pulling her coat close. The girls were waiting, and she didn’t get out much anymore. It was best not to be late.

 _Tesco’s. But John always did the shopping_. Sherlock shuddered at the prospect of having to interact with the dense shop girls, the other consumers. He abhorred the idea. Still, he was a consulting detective, and he had faced far more treacherous tasks. He glanced down at the baby who continued to squall. Did infants really have the ability to continuously cry until their needs were met? It seemed unnecessarily taxing to Sherlock and, if this baby were anyone other than John Watson, he surely would have found some kind faced old nanny to watch him while he worked on the case. As it was, Sherlock grimaced at his tiny flatmate, before ducking back inside the house to retrieve John’s wallet and keys. If he had to suffer Tesco’s, John would most definitely be paying for it.

 

Sherlock staggered through the door to 221B, juggling several bags of Similac, nappies, and wipes in one hand, and a sleeping John in the other. The baby had cried himself to the point of exhaustion, as the detective had suspected he would. It did not change the fact that he still had not eaten. Sherlock was pleased that, when he awoke, John would finally be fed. He couldn’t possibly think through the white noise of his cries.

He dumped the supplies onto the kitchen island, before hanging up his coat after removing it with as much grace as he could muster with only one available arm. John popped awake as Sherlock was toeing off his shoes. The baby clearly hadn’t forgotten the pressing issue of his empty stomach, and he geared for a renewal of his watery protests.

Sherlock was ahead of him. He had purchased a bottle and nipple from which to feed John, and he had several containers of baby mush if the formula didn’t suffice. He deposited John on the couch before ruffling around for the materials to assemble the liquid sustenance. The woman at Tesco’s who had taken pity on him had informed Sherlock that he should boil the bottle and nipple before giving it to John. Sherlock could not be bother to take the time. He now had two cases on--the baby kidnapper and the case of his infant flatmate--and he needed to focus his brain on them. John would survive unwashed plastic.

As Sherlock poured the white liquid into the bottle, his mind flashed back to a few months previous when he had come down with a rare African sweating sickness that he had contracted from a contaminated crime scene. The shivering had been so violent that he could not hold a cup or spoon to his lips without spilling the contents. Being concerned about Sherlock’s loss of fluids, John had simply sat on the couch with Sherlock cradled in his lap as he spoon fed soup and electrolytes to him. If John could do such a thing for Sherlock, then the detective could return the favor.

He screwed the cap on with a noncommittal twist of his wrist. John watched him from where he had been perched on the couch. His wide eyes trained on the bottle as Sherlock drew near. Sherlock ignored the mild spillage from overfilling the bottle and lifted John to maneuver him into the crook of his elbow. He wasn’t exactly sure how to go about feeding him, so he simply popped the nipple of the bottle into John’s mouth and hoped for the best. John sucked thoughtfully, assessing, before giving Sherlock a gummy smile around the nipple.

“This is acceptable to you, then,” Sherlock asked. There was no response, of course. Sherlock sighed. _Brilliant Holmes_ , he thought. _Looking for gratification from an infant_. He rolled his eyes at himself before heading to his room to retrieve his laptop. There was no point in using John’s if he was too young to be irritated by it.

After almost an hour of failed searches, Sherlock slammed the laptop closed. There were no plausible leads on physical regression into babyhood. All that he had really found were conspiracy theories and links to trailers for a film called The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

“Dammit, John,” Sherlock groused. “How did you manage this?” Sherlock was unused to not knowing things. He hated it, in fact. It was his job to know things, and failing to do so frustrated him to no end. It was equally frustrating that John was unable to make him tea, which is what he usually did when Sherlock got into a tizzy.

 _Tea_.

Sherlock’s head snapped up in excitement. “Of course,” he exclaimed. “How could I have missed that? I’m right, aren’t I, John,” he asked the startled infant he still held. “It was the tea you had in the flower shop. No don’t bother answering, all you can do is babble. Not that that’s any different from what you normally do.”

This was perfect. Now he could change John back and focus on the kidnapping case. No doubt Lestrade was frantic to hear his theories. He had twelve, after all. All he needed to do was poke about the flower shop’s kitchen to see what had brought about John’s transformation in the first place. He could go right now. He whirled in excitement, making John giggle with glee. “This is brilliant, you see,” the detective told his baby companion as he pulled his shoes on one handed. He didn’t bother untying them. “This baby business was starting to grow rather tiresome. I’m sure you understand that I haven’t time to care for an infant.” He pulled on his coat before snatching his phone off the desk. He stopped, considering whether or not he needed the carrier that Mrs. Hudson had given him. He decided he’d better take it, in case he needed his hands free. He retrieved the thing from the floor where he had left it.

It took a bit of struggling before Sherlock managed to clip the carrier into place, but he was a bloody genius, and he wasn’t about to let this blasted contraption stump him. Finally, John was in place, and Sherlock was off to Essex yet again.


End file.
